


no mercy

by kalypsobean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Play, Dean in Hell, Knifeplay, M/M, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:10:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7218304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not so far a stretch to think that Dean would break in Hell, but he doesn't have to break at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no mercy

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt at [comment_fic](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/727682.html?thread=95981186#t95981186) by tigris_wolf: _Supernatural, Dean Winchester(/Alistair), pick up the razor_

Alastair has taken Dean apart and put him back together enough that Dean knows how things work now; the knowledge hums just out of reach, as if he could use it without consciously referring to it, though he's never had the need. A quick kill was good enough, until now.

The knowledge is there, second nature to his hands and he doesn't even think, picking up the razor and holding it to the demon's throat.

"Did you think this would be easy? That I would make it quick?" he says, sliding it over her chest and down to her hip, where it's harder to get the artery, but the blood will still flow. She could see it there, as it starts, the holy water on the blade making the wound stay open, a thin red line on her pale skin. Her eyes are black and her hair is blonde. 

Alastair is pressed against his back, skin on skin, giving Dean a kind of warmth he had never expected to need. "Everything she's done," he whispers, "you can return to her." The words themselves are everything: an encouragement, a reminder, a warning, a promise. Alastair's hands slide down Dean's arms and then clasp loosely over his hands, so each cut is from them both, and Dean can pretend, if he chooses, that Alastair is making him do this, lift the skin from her stomach and stroke the exposed muscle, feeding her the blood from his hand as she looks at him, still defiant, as if she expects not to be able to die. But Alastair taught him magic, too, and if Dean wanted, he could; he could carve the symbols Alastair taught him and drive the black smoke in on itself until there was nothing left and even the body would disappear, no longer being made by the thoughts of its owner. 

But he wants her to suffer, and Alastair would be disappointed if he shows her mercy. Alastair wants Dean to break, the give art to his rage that is thoughtless and wide, and Dean will not. Even as Alastair moves behind him, forces him to stand wide and then takes him, making him time the blade to each thrust in order to keep control of the damage, he doesn't snap. He removes her skin, her appendix, and everything else she doesn't need in order to stay alive, to be trapped in the body she made and feel all the pain she caused him, and he offers her to Alastair as proof that he will not so easily be undone.

Alastair remakes her, and then she is gone.

"If you want to torture demons," he says, dressed and stainless, as if it had never happened, calm as if Dean is not naked and covered in her blood, his hand shaking and the razor only staying in his grasp because he can't uncurl his fingers to let it go. "If you want that, you can do it here. As long as you like."

And Dean, torn between his rage and his shame and his lust, forces himself to let the razor drop. 

"I'm going to need a proper knife for that," he says, and Alastair smiles, blood on his teeth and glitter in his eyes. 

"You can use whatever you like, of course, but I know what you like best." Alastair waves his hand and a rack appears, in a way Dean will never be used to. It has everything he could need: scalpels, razors, double-edged tactical blades, and even a machete, so real and beaten down it could be Dean's own, stolen from the Impala and hidden away until now. 

Dean lifts the machete from the rack, recognising the familiar weight and wear pattern, and he smiles too.


End file.
